


It's Always You

by Lazarusmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, Broken John, Broken Sherlock, Character Death, Gen, after Sherlock's time in eastern europe, vague johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazarusmycroft/pseuds/Lazarusmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to London after his six months in Eastern Europe and finds John is not doing well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> As always these are not my own original characters and no copyright infringement is intended.

Sherlock had returned from his six month stint in Eastern Europe much worse for the wear, if he thought his time spent tracking Moriarty's web and dismantling it was difficult then he had just endured nothing short of six solid months of hell. Still, it was great to be back in London. He hadn't truly returned yet, he hadn't been in touch with John, hadn't been back to Baker Street yet. For the moment he was recovering at his brother's house, having endured extensive wounds due to the fact that he had allowed himself to be captured by a terrorist cell and had been beaten almost senseless in their quest for information which they received, incorrect information that led to the arrest of several top ranking people in the network. 

All that was behind him now and he lay in bed trying to muster the energy to get up and shower, today he was going to contact John. A twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach urged him out of the soft, downy bed and into the shower where he stood for at least thirty minutes, letting the scalding hot water run over his scarred and bruised skin. He looked down at his chest and the bruising that was slowly turning a lighter shade of purple. He watched the water rush over the slowly scabbing burns on his forearms. Sighing he turned and reached for the shampoo to lather his hair, having finished almost forty five minutes later he finally stepped out of the shower on to the cold tile floor. Looking at himself in the mirror he thought to himself that it would be a miracle if John even recognized him.

John. Sherlock hadn't asked too many questions about him yet, he actually felt...doubtful. He was afraid of what Mycroft would have to tell him so he chose not to know just yet. Everything Sherlock had done since the day he met John Watson had been only with John Watson in mind, he supposed that was what love meant, existing for one person. For Sherlock that one person was John. He had never intended to fall in love, love conflicted with the cold, hard reason he valued above all things, but he truly had never meant to fall for John. He supposed there was no changing that now, he had also not planned on being back in London, back in John's life, alive, plans change apparently.

Having finally dressed in his perfectly pressed and creased trousers, his black button up shirt and his finely tailored suit coat, he glanced at his skeletal reflection one last time and exited the bedroom to make his way to the kitchen. Mycroft was seated at the table drinking tea and eating a slice of grapefruit, he was once again dieting, as he read the daily newspaper.

"Brother dear." Said Mycroft by way of greeting.

"Mycroft." Was Sherlock's only reply as he sat down opposite his brother, wincing as he did so. Mycroft laid the paper on the table and studied Sherlock for a long moment. Silence stretched on and Sherlock picked up the financial times and pretended to read about the world's stock exchange, while in reality he wasn't taking in a single word. Finally after almost ten minutes he laid the paper aside and started to address Mycroft. Before Sherlock could utter a syllable Mycroft began speaking.

"You are about to inquire about him, aren't you? Of course you are, I'm surprised it took so long. Mary is dead, she died about two months after you left. A brain tumor, inoperable, it was all very quick. John isn't well. Obviously he doesn't expect you, it will be quite a shock."

Sherlock sat staring across the table, trying in vain to process this information, he had never expected such dire news. How should he respond? He had no idea, he only knew that John was hurting once again, broken, probably beyond repair and he, yet again, was not there for the one person on earth he loved above all else. Swallowing hard he was finally able to make sense of his thoughts and, god help him, his emotions.

 

"Where is he? He will have left their house, unable to bear the memories. I must see him today."

"He has taken a small flat in London, not far from Baker Street. I expect he wanted to be in a place that he associated with you since you were absent, it will have felt like a consolation of sorts. He has been working at the local surgery, he is there daily from nine until two."

Mycroft stood up to leave and turned to look back at his younger brother, smiling sadly.

"He's different, Sherlock. He isn't the same man you left standing on that Tarmac seven months ago, please don't expect too much." With that he turned and left, Sherlock sat staring at the empty chair across from him, thinking.

After his tea had gone cold and untouched Sherlock finally stood and buttoned his suit coat, grabbing his mobile from the table he walked to the entry way where he donned his Belstaff and scarf and headed out into London for the first time in over seven months.

He had decided to go to Baker Street first, Mrs. Hudson was out but she was already aware that Sherlock was back in London. He let himself into the flat, the drapes were drawn and it was gloomy and dusty inside. He stood in the doorway and looked around, breathing in the familiar scents, the smell of home. Almost nothing had changed apart from the accumulation of dust, he smiled wanly and he went to the windows to let some light in. Before he even realized it the clock showed it was one o'clock and he hurriedly grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook and made his way to the street to hail a cab.

A few minutes later he found himself standing on the pavement outside of a small apartment building not far from Baker Street just like Mycroft had said. Having just checked his watch and ascertaining that it was two fifteen he glanced up and down the street, suddenly quite nervous. A cab pulled up at the curb just a short time later and out stepped John Watson. He was at least twenty pounds lighter, he wore jeans and a plaid button up shirt, the dark circles under his eyes were very telling. Before John could approach the door Sherlock stepped from the shadow of the awning and into the doctor's path.

"Hello John." John Watson stopped dead in his tracks, he had been looking at the ground as he walked, now he lifted his eyes and they were immediately captivated by a pair of eyes he had never imagined he was going to see again. Those piercing, steel grey eyes locked onto his own and he couldn't form a sentence. He backed up a step and took a few deep, steadying breaths 

"How many times? How many...times...are you going to do this, Sherlock? It isn't okay, not okay, Sherlock. You....Jesus..." He was breathing heavily again. Sherlock stepped forward and put a hand out to him, John pushed it away, glaring.

"John, please, you have to understand, I wanted to be in touch. I never expected to find myself here, back in London. I never imagined I would see you again." As he was speaking he was drinking in every aspect of the doctor's appearance, committing it to memory, he noticed that he was still wearing his wedding ring. Again Sherlock advanced with his hand outstretched, John didn't recoil this time. 

 

"John, I'm so sorry, I should have never left. I haven't been there for you when you have needed me the most and I can never apologize enough for my absence." John stood staring into those unfathomable eyes for long moments, whatever it was he saw there it propelled him forward and he grabbed the taller man around the neck and hugged him tightly, feeling his eyes moisten. He didn't release him until he was sure his eyes were quite dry.

"Come in, come in for a cuppa." Walking away he could feel Sherlock following him and he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips, the first in a very long time. Once upstairs in the tiny flat which consisted of a sitting room/kitchen with a bathroom off to one side and a door which presumably led to a bedroom. Sherlock sat in an overstuffed armchair while John puttered in the small kitchenette boiling the kettle, avoiding eye contact. After a few minutes John finally turned and leaned against the Formica countertop, fixing Sherlock with his gaze.

"How long?"

"I'm sorry?" 

"How long have you been back in London?"

"Erm...not long...I've been- recovering." 

"Recovering? Recovering from what? What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing, it isn't important. Listen, John, Mycroft has told me what happened. I-I am sorry. I know it must have been terrible for you and I should have been here for you. Had I known what you were going through I would have done anyt-"

John cut him off, feeling his eyes begin to sting.

"Listen, Sherlock, I'm glad you're back. I have missed you, I never imagined I'd see you again. You look like shit, by the way. Where've you been?"

Sherlock grinned crookedly, "I can't really say. I'm going to be back at Baker Street. I don't think you find this place...permanent...I'd like nothing more than having you back in our flat."

John was floored by the actual emotion being expressed by Sherlock Holmes, the man who typically abhorred all forms of emotion. After a lengthy discussion in which John finally talked about the loss of his wife and the huge emotional toll it took on him they agreed that he would move back into the flat at 221B as soon as possible. Sherlock was elated, John felt as though he was able to breathe for the first time in months.


	2. Chapter Two

Conveniently John's lease was about to expire and so he was available to move back in with Sherlock by the end of the week. After Mary died he gave most of her possessions to charity, unable to bear the sight of them and so his possessions were quite limited. Sherlock deduced that John was subconsciously reverting to his militaristic training and therefore living a very spartan existence.

John's first day back in 221B was a Friday and Sherlock had been back for about three days and seeming to settle back in very nicely. He did however have doctor's orders that he wasn't to physically exert himself for several more weeks or else his broken ribs would never heal properly. This meant that he was not allowed, under any circumstance, to take on a case, this also meant that he felt like he was slowly losing his mind, the boredom was nothing short of unbearable.

John had run out to the market since there were absolutely no groceries to speak of due to the fact that the place had been empty and Mrs. Hudson hadn't been shopping. While John was out Sherlock decided it was time he showered and dressed his wounds in clean gauze. While he had stayed with Mycroft his brother had actually helped him with this chore, much to Sherlock's surprise. He hadn't realised how difficult this really was to do on his own. Sherlock stood in the bathroom with his trousers on but no shirt and tried in vain to apply the bandages to his back he was about to just give up when he heard John enter the flat.

"Sherlock? Are you in?"

"Yes, I'm in the bathroom."

John dropped the grocery sacks on the table and began rifling through them about to put everything away. He noticed the door to he bathroom was ajar and he curiously poked his head in to find Sherlock standing shirtless and attempting to apply bandages to half healed wounds on his back.

"Jesus Sherlock! Does it ever end with you? I expect you have a few broken ribs too? What the hell happened? Who did this?" He grabbed the roll of gauze from Sherlock's hand and began applying some medicine and then expertly placing the bandages and taping them.

"I told you, it isn't important. Thank you. I'm feeling better everyday." John turned him by his shoulders to face him and he looked at the man, really looked for the first time and he felt his eyes prick with unshed tears then suddenly he was furious. Up and down his forearms were covered with what appeared to be burn marks that were beginning to scab over, his chest was mottled with purple and black and tinges of green. The area around his ribs bore the deepest hues of purple. Without intending to John gingerly touched the area around his ribs, he told himself he was feeling for swelling, fearing fluid buildup. Taking a deep, steadying breath he backed up a step and looked into the detective's face, what he saw there surprised him more than anything else had. Sherlock's expression was...tender...there was no other word for it. Confusedly John took another step back, Sherlock cleared his throat and reached, wincing, for his deep purple button up shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

"Thank you, again, for applying those bandages. I guess I couldn't manage it alone."

John had looked down at his feet and when he looked back up Sherlock had buttoned his shirt and was proceeding to tuck it into his trousers.

"Erm...you're welcome. I do of course advise plenty of rest, I'm sure you'll ignore me though." 

Sherlock smirked as he turned to the mirror to finish his daily routine. John clumsily left the bathroom and returned to his groceries. Later that night John sat for the first time in his cozy armchair which, until just now, he hadn't realised how much he missed it. He sat with his medical journal open on his knee but he stared into the depths of the crackling fire in the grate. He was so consumed with staring at the fire that he was completely unaware of Sherlock's penetrating gaze on his back as he sat, supposedly working with his microscope, at the kitchen table. Sherlock couldn't fight the almost overwhelming urge to go to him and hold him and tell him it would all be alright, he would never leave his blogger again. 

 

The minutes ticked slowly by and Sherlock attempted in vain to return to his work several times, it was useless, he couldn't stop staring at the back of that sandy head and wishing he could help in any way, help take away the hurt and pain that he obviously still suffered. In Sherlock's mind some people deserved to suffer, he was one of those people, he wasn't a good man, had no real virtues to speak of but John Watson was most definitely not a person who deserved to suffer. He could hear the voices from his past quite clearly telling him how useless he was, what good is being clever if those you love are constantly hurt and you can't do anything to stop it? After a few more minutes he could hear the low snore coming from John indicating that he had fallen asleep in his chair, Sherlock checked his watch and was startled to find that it had been hours not just moments that he had sat staring. The clock just struck twelve.

Not even remotely tired he got up and fetched a blanket to place around the doctor while he grabbed his coat and scarf, preparing to go out. John grunted once in his sleep and Sherlock stood stock still in the doorway, waiting, listening. When he was positive that he hadn't woken up he gently closed and locked the door to the flat and walked quietly downstairs to the street. Once outside he shook a cigarette into his hand and searched for his lighter, having lit it he took off down the street, aimlessly walking. There was something wonderful about London at this time of night, it wasn't quiet but it was quieter than usual. People didn't really look at you in the night, no harsh light to illuminate all your flaws, it was a sense of truly being invisible.

As he walked he tried desperately to organize his thoughts. First off he knew that he must find a way to help John, not being an emotional person, he hadn't a clue as to how to begin helping a person recover from emotional trauma. Secondly, he knew that he was completely and irreversibly in love with that man, he didn't think of himself as homosexual, rather he was simply attracted to John, everything about him. He didn't find himself gawking at other men and he had never found himself to be attracted to any woman that he could remember. He just simply loved John and that was all there was to it. John didn't reciprocate those feelings though, from what he had observed thus far, but there was that awkward moment in the bathroom. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts he finally looked around and noticed that he had wandered quite far. Lighting another cigarette he turned and headed back in the direction of home and his doctor. 

He promised himself as he walked that he would do anything, and he meant anything, to protect John Watson from now on. There would never again be a reason he would leave that mans side and, god help him, if they simply went on for the rest of their natural lives as flatmates and platonic friends, then so be it, but he, Sherlock, planned to never be more than a phone call away. When he approached the door to the flat he checked his watch and saw that it was now almost one thirty in the morning. He quietly let himself in and ascended the stairs, removing his coat, scarf and gloves as he walked. When he entered the flat he was immediately aware that John was no longer sleeping as he had been when Sherlock left him. He was still snuggled cozily in his chair by the fire but his eyes were open and looking at Sherlock, questioning.

"Fancied a midnight walk then?"

Sherlock smiled halfheartedly as he unbuttoned his suit coat and sat down gingerly across from John.

"Yes, I fancied a stroll. You were sleeping quite soundly when I left, what happened to awake you?"

"Nothing in particular, I don't sleep more than a few hours, on and off ever since...um...ever since, you know, Mary."

Sherlock flinched inwardly at the evident look of pain on John's face at the mention of Mary. How the hell was he supposed to help bring him back? How could he ever make this man happy again?

"Oh...er...right. As you know I don't advocate sleep so I understand."

"So, where'd you go? Just now. Where does one go when one fancies a 'stroll' at midnight in London?" 

Again Sherlock smiled slightly. " oh, you know, here and there. No where specific, just....wandering. I just felt a bit restless and I didn't want to wake you. That's all."

"You've definitely returned a more considerate flatmate than you were in the past. I don't know how I feel about this new you, it's a bit weird." John laughed, not a real laugh but it was the closest thing to one that Sherlock had heard since being back so he would take anything he got.

"John, I know it's been hard on you, the past few months...hell, the past few years for that matter. I also know that I'm not an ideal person for this but I just need you to know that I am here to listen...if....if you feel like talking. About anything at all, I want to help." 

John just sat staring into the depths of the fire without responding immediately. After a bit he turned his head to look at Sherlock.

"You know, before I went to Afghanistan, before the war I had very different expectations for my life. I got shot over there but that wasn't so bad, I came back to London in need of a flat sharer, my life was a wreck, then of course I met you and you know all those gruesome details. You jumped off that bloody roof and I thought my life would end, I really did. I never told you that, I actually thought about taking my army pistol and just fucking ending it all. Those early days after you died were the worst, slowly things got- not better- easier. I started doing normal things again. That's how I met her, In a pub, Greg had come round and forced me to go out, I'm glad I did." He paused here for a long moment, Sherlock thought maybe he couldn't go on talking, he waited.

Sherlock was surprised to hear John's voice crack when he began speaking again and became aware that the army doctor's eyes were filled with tears. It broke what was left of Sherlock's heart.

 

"She changed me, Sherlock, in ways I can never explain. She understood things about me that even I was unaware of. I still don't know why this happened, to her, to me. It just doesn't make sense." He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands and stifled a small sob. "She was really unique, I wish you had had more time to spend with her, get to know her better. I know she had a dark past but I think we could have had a future. Do you know what she used to say to me? She constantly would say 'you're meant for each other, you and Sherlock'. I always laughed and ignored it, I think she was right, somehow." Taking a few deep breaths he shifted in his chair, Sherlock had sat completely motionless through the whole thing, processing.

" I know she made you happy, even if I don't completely understand happiness, I will be eternally grateful to her for doing what I have always been incapable of. I know that I will never replace Mary either, I don't intend to, but I am here now, I want to always be here for you. Maybe someday you'll start feeling more like the same man you've always been, until then you deserve to take as much time as you need to grieve." 

John was stunned, never had he heard Sherlock speak such heartfelt words, words that were carefully chosen. The two men sat in silence for a bit until finally John stood and stretched his cramped muscle. A faint pink tinge on the horizon indicated that dawn wasn't far off. Rubbing his eyes he decided it was time to try and catch a few hours of sleep.

"Thanks, Sherlock, for listening. I needed it. I may want to say more next time but for now at least it was a start and I honestly feel a bit better." Sherlock responded with that little half smile that John just now realised he missed. 

"G'night."

"Good night, John."


	3. Chapter Three

John awoke very late the following morning, Saturday, and found Sherlock exactly where he had left him earlier that morning. The only change was he was wearing different clothes. His purple shirt was replaced with a gray one and of course he was wearing his usual black trousers and suit coat. He was reading the daily newspaper when John entered the room and he looked up.

"Good morning, I assume you slept well for a change?" He asked with a raised eyebrow. John smiled in return, stretching.

"Yes, yes I actually did. I don't even remember dreaming so that says a lot."

John walked into the kitchen intending to make himself a cup of tea.

"So, did you get any rest last night, or I guess I should say this morning?"

Sherlock smiled "Dull. I had plenty of rest while I was staying at Mycroft's"

John sighed and shook his head as he opened the refrigerator looking for the milk.

"You really are quite impossible, you know that? Anyways, any plans for the day?"

"I thought I might phone Scotland Yard and see if anything is on."

"Sherlock, you know you aren't supposed to do anything, you need to heal."

"I NEED to work and preferably before my brain rots. It is dangerously close to happening."

John decided not to engage any further in this conversation since there was every possibility that it would only end in an argument and he was still too tired to go that route. He sat at the small, cluttered table and drank his tea in silence. 

Both men would never forget those first few weeks back together, they were some of the most difficult times for either one of them. John was learning how to live and cope with his grief and Sherlock was learning how to help the man whom he loved and adored. Every day was a challenge for Sherlock, a constant battle between never wanting John to leave him and wanting nothing more than to tell him how much he loved him. Some days he almost broke down and told him, especially when things were particularly dull and the criminals of London weren't providing any distractions.

John seemed to be functioning better and better everyday. Some days were still very difficult, Sherlock would certainly never forget the day in early May when he found the doctor completely broken down, to the point that he didn't even resist when Sherlock reached out and embraced him. Having finally calmed him, John proceeded to tell Sherlock that it happened to be Mary's birthday and he then apologised for the state he was in. Sherlock was happy to say that moments such as those were becoming fewer and fewer to the point that John had actually announced one day that he intended to visit her grave, something he hadn't yet done. John was understandably shocked but also pleased when Sherlock offered to accompany him. The detective played it off as though he had to go out for a case so it wasn't out of his way but John wasn't stupid and he knew what Sherlock's intentions were.

At the cemetery John hesitated at the gate, Sherlock simply waited, watching John steel himself. Clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides and taking a deep breath he took the first step and walked through the wrought iron gates. They only stayed at the grave for a few minutes, John just stood staring at the glossy stone with her name engraved across the marble along with the date she was born and the date she died. Discreetly rubbing the few tears from his face John turned and looked up into the face of the taller man, indescribably grateful for his presence.

"Thank you, we can go now. I think you have to stop at The Yard?"

"Yes, yes I have to see Lestrade. Are you sure you're ready to leave?"

"Yes, I've done what I needed."

As they walked back out to the main road John chuckled drily.

"It really is amazing, the way things happen."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"A few years ago this was a completely reversed scene. Mary came with me to your grave, she was my rock when I was at my lowest and now here we are, it's quite remarkable."

"Yes, yes I suppose it is." Sherlock looked over at the shorter man and he glanced at his hands that were no longer clenched and became aware that this was the first day he had removed that thin band of gold from his finger. He was choosing to finally move forward and Sherlock could have jumped with joy, he had been waiting for this to happen.

That day there was a tiny almost imperceptible shift in their relationship, both men felt the difference, neither commented on it. As summer stretched suffocatingly on, Sherlock worked non stop on case after case. He was far too frightened to allow his brain time unoccupied, frightened of exploring any deeper the feelings already there.

One Monday in late August he was surprised by a visit from his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft didn't typically make the trip from the Diogenes Club to Baker Street. Immediately Sherlock knew something important must be in the works.

"Brother mine. I have something to discuss with you, something of the utmost importance, so please don't be childish."

Sherlock sat in his leather chair fiddling with his violin.

"I don't have much time, what is it? Make it quick Mycroft."

Mycroft walked across the room and sat in John's vacant chair opposite Sherlock.

"I have...news...of a, shall we say, delicate nature. I have had word of Armin."

Sherlock was lounging back in his chair with his eyes half closed, exuding boredom but at the mention of that name he sat bolt upright, suddenly paying full attention.

"How is that even possible? You know what happened, it isn't possible." Sherlock ended sounding as though he were trying to convince himself more than anything else. 

"I wish I could tell you that my information was faulty, brother dear, but we both know that would not be quite true. As impossible as it seems, I am here to tell you that he has resurfaced. I have not had contact but I have people who've been in contact." 

Sherlock was silent, unsure how to process this startling news. Finally he stood, buttoning his suit coat and walked to the window at the front of the flat. 

"What do you propose? Why now? Something is obviously amiss. Where has he been last seen?"

"The idea of him back in London chills me to the bone, Sherlock. Last word had him in Germany, It has been ten years since either of us have seen or heard from him."

"For once in my life I agree with you, he can not be allowed back here. It does not bode well, not well at all."

As they were talking John entered the flat carrying his brief case and looking tired. He stopped at the door, startled by the sight of Mycroft who never simply dropped in to chat.

"Hello...Mycroft. Sherlock? Everything okay?"

"Hmmmm? Oh yes, yes Mycroft was just leaving, weren't you brother dear?"

Mycroft, taking the hint, stood and walked to where his younger brother stood near the window.

"We will have to be in touch, Sherlock. Remember what I told you so very long ago? There's an east wind coming and we now know his name. Good day."

The two men stood silently watching as Mycroft left, John was the first to speak.

"So? Are you going to tell me what that was all about? He never visits Baker Street, something must be up."

Sherlock paid no attention to John's question, he simply stood looking down on the busy street, thinking. He was frightened and rightly so, fear was something he wasn't used to but fear came with a name and a face now. An east wind, indeed, Sherlock thought as he turned from the window to fix his army doctor with a piercing gaze.

"We have to talk, john."


	4. Chapter Four

John had no idea what was going on and, frankly, it frightened him.  After Mycroft left Sherlock sprang into motion, pacing around the flat nervously, running his hands impatiently though his glossy black curls, muttering to himself.  John could do nothing but watch him helplessly.

"Sherlock?  Please fill me in here.  Sherlock?"

The detective didn't even acknowledge that John had spoken, he just continued to pace, finally he stopped and put his hands on his hips and looked at John for a long moment.  After a while he said, more to himself than anything,  "There is no other way, this is the only answer."  With that he spun and dropped into the wooden desk chair and flipped open his laptop and began typing furiously, his unnaturally long fingers flying across the keys.  John sighed and waited, completely aware that he was not going to get any answers until Sherlock was good and ready.  He went and sat in his armchair and decided to get comfortable while he waited.  A few moments later while John was perusing the daily news he heard the sharp snick that indicated Sherlock had finished whatever he was doing on his computer.

Coming over to sit in his chair across from John's it was evident that he was about to tell John bad news.  

"John, we have been-friends- for a long time now."  John nodded in agreement, smiling as Sherlock hesitated at the word "friend" aware that their relationship didn't fit so neatly into that category.

"You trust me, right?'  Again John nodded.

"Good, I have booked you at the medical conference in Zurich this week.  You leave tomorrow morning at 5:30 AM.  You are staying at the five star hotel where the conference is being held.  I need you to go and do this, for me."

John just sat staring at Sherlock, running his hand along his jaw methodically.

"You're insane, you do know that?  I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock, so start talking.  What the hell is going on here?  What was Mycroft here for?"

Sighing Sherlock sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, his thinking pose as John had come to think of it.

"We have gone up against some of the most nefarious criminals in the business, John.  We fought Moriarty,  he was almost the end of me.  Magnusson was another one who almost successfully ended me.  There is one man in this whole world whom I had never intended to see again, one man who can and will succeed in destroying me, if I allow him to.  I can not and I will not allow him to come anywhere near you.  You must understand this, John, I need you to understand what I am saying to you."

"I'm afraid I don't understand Sherlock.  If this man is so terrible then I am certainly not allowing you to go up against him on your own.  I've lost you too many times and in too many ways, I won't allow it again.  Do you understand that, Sherlock?"

Frustrated, Sherlock sat forward abruptly and locked his gaze onto John's.  

"There is something I haven't told you, John.  Something important.  Mycroft isn't my only sibling.  There was another, is another, brother.  His name is Armin and he is three years older than I and four years younger than Mycroft.  He has been in exile for almost fifteen years now, ever since Mycroft gave him the choice of prison or a self imposed exile.  The reason he had to leave had very much to do with me, I was young and while at University I had begun to dabble in, erm, recreational drug use.  Armin and I had always been on better terms than I was with Mycroft.  I didn't know it at the time but Armin had begun smuggling illegal drugs into the country and selling them, he was working his way up the chain of command for this particular drug cartel."

Sherlock paused here, reading John's expression.  John wore a look that said "go on"

"Armin is a chemist and has also studied physics and mathematics.  He is a genius, a genius who has decided to turn his talents to the art of making drugs and selling them and running his very own drug cartel.  He has the brain of a criminal mastermind.  When I became aware of what he was doing I tried hard to make him stop but he enjoyed the power too much.  It went on  for weeks and then months until finally I turned to Mycroft for help.  Armin has always been prone to flying off the handle and so as you could imagine he lost his temper when he found out what I'd done."  

At this point in his narrative Sherlock became visibly flustered and he stood up to begin pacing the room again.  John turned in his seat to watch the tall, lean figure prowl the room like a caged animal, again running his hands through his hair making it stick up in all directions.

"Armin and a few of his thugs came to me after that and threatened that if I didn't just drop it and make Mycroft back off that I'd be sorry.  Of course I wasn't going to be bullied and I had developed an unfortunate weakness for narcotics. I continued to track his group of criminals and find out where they were selling from and where they were manufacturing, you see, I didn't want my brother mixed in with these types of people. It was fine for me to dabble but I didn't want Armin involved. Things got, difficult and a few of his colleagues caught up with me and almost killed me. If Mycroft hadn't found me in time I feel certain I would have died at the age of Twenty Two. He never forgave me or Mycroft after that, it broke mother's heart and he was always closest with her. Mycroft forced him into exile as I said and that was the end. Now, however, it turns out that he may be back in London. He has vowed to seek revenge on me, feeling everything was my fault. If I had just died the way I was supposed to it would have just been one more junkie overdosing. I didn't die and was able to successfully stop him. He's dangerous, John, probably the most dangerous man I have ever met and he is my own brother. He wants me dead and he'll attack anything or anyone I care about."

"Where is he now?" was all John asked after Sherlock finished speaking.

"He is believed to be in London. It's only a matter of time until he comes here, to Baker Street. Please John, I need you to leave."

John was silent for a moment again, finally he nodded at Sherlock who seemed slightly surprised at how easy it was to get him to agree. John got up and came to stand right in front of the taller man. "Sure, I'll go Sherlock. You're coming with me though."

"No, you aren't understanding me. He will find me, he will track me down. I can be anywhere near you."

"Sherlock, I've been through a hell of a lot with you, I have never before shown myself to be cowardly or inept. So, why now do you want me to leave so badly? Something else is going on here."

"I've told you everything, John, now please, I'm begging you."

"No." was John's simple reply.

The two men argued back and forth for a while longer until finally Sherlock agreed that he would cancel John's reservations and not force him to go to the conference. It had grown dark by the time they had finished talking and John stretched, announcing he was going to have a bath and then head off to bed, promising they would discuss matters in further detail tomorrow. Sherlock stood watching him go, feeling uneasy. Not long after John had disappeared into the bathroom Sherlock's phone alerted him from his trouser pocket that he had a new text message. Fishing it out he read the text, not at all surprised.

_Brother dear, we have some catching up to do.  You know where to find me.-AH_  


Sherlock didn't respond he simply slipped his phone back into his pocket and grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook near the door. With a sorrowful glance in the direction of the bathroom he sighed and turned to leave the flat on cat's paws so as not to alert John of his leaving. There really was no other way for this to play out. Once down on the street he hailed a cab and asked the driver to drop him in the vicinity of the Vauxhall Arches, a place Sherlock frequented in his younger days when he found himself in need of a fix, a place he frequented now when he was in need of information from his homeless network. His footsteps echoed wetly off the cold, damp concrete all around him, as he walked he was aware that the shadows held more than just rats on this night. Smiling to himself he came to a stop near a particular wall that seemed to hold more graffiti than the others, he was only there a moment when an all too familiar voice reached his ears.

"Well, well, well. Brother dear, you never do disappoint. I know that you will always come running like a little puppy every time I call, I suppose that's the junkie in you, always looking for a fix no matter what kind it is."

"Welcome home Armin. What do you want from me?"

Armin laughed humorlessly, "The last fifteen years would be a lovely start, I'm not sure you can make that happen though, can you?" Sherlock's phone had begun to make alert sounds letting him know he had several incoming text messages and then it began to ring almost continuously.

"It would appear that your Army doctor is concerned about you. John Watson, that's his name isn't it? I'll admit Sherlock, I was as shocked as anyone when I learned that you were living with someone. I mean, you must be ghastly to live with."

"Why all this small talk, Armin? I know you better than this, just get on with it."

"I want you to know, to understand why I am doing this, dear little brother. We could have been unstoppable, why did you have to suddenly develop morals. Well, no use crying over the past, is there? No, it just isn't fair, after it all I end up being exiled to some god forsaken country while you receive continued coddling from our big brother. Mother and Father of course see it all as being my fault and can't even bear to admit that maybe, just maybe their baby boy is nothing but a low life junkie. I lost everything, EVERYTHING, because of you Sherlock. Now I want you to suffer the same way."

As he finished speaking he stepped into a sliver of light cast by the moon and Sherlock saw that he hadn't changed very much over fifteen years. Still tall and thin, he wore his dark, curly hair a bit shorter than Sherlock's and he had a pointed goatee. He wore a very expensive, well tailored charcoal grey suit over which he was wearing an equally expensive wool overcoat. He stood looking over Sherlock, obviously making his own deductions.

"That Doctor of yours has been good for you. You look well, brother, better than I remember. Though, to be fair, you were near death when last I laid eyes on you."

"Armin, I understand your anger with me, I truly do. Here I am for you do with as you please, but no one else needs to suffer. Take your revenge on me and be done with it."

"You have grown, ah...sentimental as you age. Not sure if I like that. I am simply here to finish what I started all those years ago and it will be with pleasure that I stand at your grave and watch as all your...loved ones...weep, because you will die just like the addict you have always been and John won't say a word, no one will know it was me because I promise we will get to him and he will be...shall I say...convinced to keep any information to himself. He will bury you for a second time, only this time it will be for real and that just might kill him."

Sherlock had to use every ounce or self restraint he possessed so as not to lunge at his sneering older brother, the taunting about John was almost too much bear. Armin approached until he was a mere couple of feet in front of Sherlock, he smiled, revealing all his perfect, white teeth in one menacing sneer.

"You see, you are going to be found having overdosed, needle still in your hand. I am going to find you and try so very hard to save you, of course it will be too late at that point. My grief is going to almost overwhelm me as I explain to our dearest Mycroft how I knew this day was coming which is why I am here in London when I'm not even supposed to be in this country and how you and I had been corresponding, though of course you would never tell him that. I will be welcomed back with open arms as the tragic hero of the story. I'm very sorry it must end this way, but I think we both always knew it would."

As his brother was speaking two of his henchmen cam up beside Sherlock and took his arms in vice-like grips while they held him still. Armin came even closer and then he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "I'll send John your love."

With that Sherlock was forced to his knees and one of the thugs yanked his coat from him and one of the others unbuttoned and pulled up his left shirt sleeve making his vein available. However, before they could get any further footsteps could be heard and Armin looked around in alarm and before any of them could move there was a gunshot and once of the men holding Sherlock went down with a thud. The next thing Sherlock heard was a very welcome voice, John Watson.

"Let him go or I will kill you." the other man let Sherlock go and he staggered to his feet, Armin, feeling like a caged animal did the only thing he could think of to do, he pulled out his own gun.

"How very touching. You really do make a lovely couple, however, this romance is going to have to end as a tragedy."

Then without hesitating he turned his gun on Sherlock and fired. The detective had barely hit the ground when Armin received a bullet right through his chest. In a few moments the whole area was abuzz with activity the police, paramedics. Armin's henchmen had apparently fled. John had gone to Sherlock immediately to try and staunch the blood flow. The bullet had gone through his left shoulder and he was lying in a pool of his own blood, his face was colorless as his life drained away. John picked him up, applying pressure on the wound and cradled him in his arms. Tears came unbidden as he felt his panic rising. Sherlock's eyes fluttered as he smiled at him.

"Knew you'd turn up, you always do."

"You're an idiot. Now don't speak, you're going to be okay."

"I don't know if I am, but listen, John, I need to say something, in case- well, you know."

"I know what you're going to say and you don't have to. I've been stupid and blind all these years, you were all I ever needed and wanted, so hold on, we have a lot of catching up to do."

and with that and in plain view of everyone he leaned in and kissed the consulting detective on his cold, pale lips. The kiss didn't last very long and tasted slightly metallic due to the blood. Sherlock was stunned but a few seconds later he was being placed on a gurney and into an ambulance. John went with him. Sherlock spent roughly a week in hospital, recovering. John rarely left his side, they both knew there was much to discuss but neither seemed in any rush. As far as both men could tell they had a long life ahead in which they could talk about things at their leisure. John couldn't remember when he last felt this happy, Sherlock was going to be ok, the threat of his brother had been removed, Armin hadn't died from John's gun shot but he was arrested and was about to spend what would most likely be the rest of his life in prison. Mycroft turned up at one point and had a lengthy discussion with Sherlock, John had left the room and he didn't inquire afterwards.

Both men simply enjoyed the fact that it was now perfectly acceptable to reach out and just hold hands or share a quick kiss, the best bit was that no one seemed particularly shocked by the news. Everyone was more surprised that it had taken so long to happen. Sherlock was released to go home on a Friday and of course John was there to help him but he was surprised to see Greg turn up, offering to drive them. Once they were settled in at Baker Street and Greg had left, Mrs. Hudson was busy in the kitchen making tea and fussing over Sherlock. Finally John had to gently shoo her out of the flat, she stood at the door, teary eyed looking over at Sherlock. All she said was "Oh, Sherlock." then she turned and left with a whimper.

John closed and locked the door and came over to sit across from his consulting detective.

"Well, here we are."

"Excellent observation, John. Indeed, here we are."

John stood up and put his hands on each arm of Sherlock's chair and leaned in kissed him deeply. When they broke apart he said,

"For once in your life don't be such a smart arse."


End file.
